


Around Every Corner

by blanketed_in_stars



Series: 52 Weeks of Wolfstar [15]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1980, Alcohol, Distrust, First War with Voldemort, M/M, Marauders' Era, Post-Hogwarts, Wakes & Funerals, keeping secrets, wolfstar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 02:39:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3711733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanketed_in_stars/pseuds/blanketed_in_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He keeps telling himself to keep quiet, stay alert, and it will all go away. It's getting harder and harder to believe that.</p><p>The second version of the scene from week 14, this time from Sirius's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Around Every Corner

**Author's Note:**

> Week 15

In London, the air is warm and the sky is blue. In Yorkshire, it's raining cats and dogs. Sirius Apparates just outside of town, as always, and spends the walk to the cottage thinking thoughts as black as the clouds above him. He's pretty sure he's torn something in his leg. The pain is better than before, but he still limps.

The walk seems longer today. He can't stop thinking about what he's found, what it might mean. He shoves the worry away and focuses on work. But that's no good, either—Rosier's the one who busted his leg, and he got away. Sirius tries not to grind his teeth as he remembers his pointed face disappearing around the corner.

When he nears the cottage, he forces himself to stop limping. If Remus sees it, he'll ask questions, and Sirius isn't sure he should answer them. It seems like these days all he does is police himself. Don't tell him this, don't let him see that. When did he start keeping this many secrets?

He knocks on the door and tries to keep as much of himself underneath the roof as possible. He can't see into the house—of course not, he cast that charm himself—but he knows Remus can see out, and hopes his silhouette doesn't look too menacing.

"Who is it?" comes the call from within.

"It's me." All he wants to do is get out of the rain.

"You'll have to be a bit more specific than that."

Sirius wrinkles his nose. All this extra security… It's not _him_ who's the dangerous one. He stops himself there; it's better if he doesn't think any longer. "Sirius Black, member of the Order of the Phoenix and accomplished wanker." _Accomplished liar_.

"And?"

"Er…" There are several things about him that aren't common knowledge, but it takes him a moment to think of a good one. "In our third year, I snuck a live kneazle into the dormitory and kept it for half a term."

After a moment, the door opens, and there stands Remus, wand in hand. "How'd you get found out? I always thought you hid it pretty well."

And that's the problem, Sirius thinks as he replies. They're both much too good at hiding things. He brushes a kiss on Remus's cheek, as fast as he dares.

"Catch anyone today?"

"No, but I might have caught a cold." He might have caught Rosier, but the bastard tripped him up with a broomstick, of all things. He waves away the offer of a potion. He won't be able to heal himself until he has a spare half hour to figure out what's actually wrong, and then another hour to find the right spell. It'll be ages. "How's the government? Still standing strong against the forces of evil?"

"More or less." Remus walks down the hall ahead of Sirius. "Kingsley wanted help with information on giants, Molly needed me to send an owl to Arthur. I'm turning into a walking post office."

"Map, too," Sirius quips without thinking.

"How in Merlin's name am I a map?" Remus blinks at him in justifiable confusion.

But maybe it's better that he said it. It seems normal, doesn't it? "I'd be lost without you." Sirius turns away from his smile and opens a cupboard.

"I set out the last of the scones for Dumbledore when he stopped by," Remus warns.

"What did he want?" Crisps, noodles… Aha. He crunches into a biscuit.

"The usual. Checking in, asking for any news, making sure all the bases are covered."

"Speaking of covering the bases, did the _Prophet_ come today?" He chews his biscuit as nonchalantly as he can, trepidation under his tongue.

"No. I think the owls are forgetting where we live." He fidgets, as Sirius knew he would. "We should get going pretty soon."

Sirius swallows down his disappointment. "I guess. It's at two?"

"Yeah, and then a few people want to meet up at a pub."

"Which pub?" If it's popular, he'll have to think of an excuse not to go.

"Not sure. Does it matter?"

Suddenly it's all too much—his leg, the suspicion, the grief. "Of course it matters," he snaps, and stalks into the bathroom.

He leans against the closed door and breathes deep, but it comes out shakily. Oh, no. He feels tears pricking beneath his eyelids. One falls, and then another and it's only through massive effort that he stops himself from collapsing on the closed toilet lid and sobbing. He stares at himself in the dirty mirror. Outside, he knows, Remus is hiding the newspaper beneath the bed. Sirius found them last week and it's the hardest thing he's ever done, not letting on that he knows. But he's got to be sure.

It would be so much easier if Remus _acted_ like a traitor. But since he doesn't, Sirius comes out of the bathroom and sits on the bed beside him. "I'm sorry," he says. He's not sure if he means it. "I'm trying not to… let it get to me. You know, everything that's going on."

"I know." Hopefully not. "You don't need to be sorry."

"Well, I am." Looking into Remus's eyes, Sirius wants to hold him. He gets up quickly to avoid that and pulls out his robes. They're the same ones he's had since he ran away the summer before sixth year, and although they're a little worn by now, the Black money that paid for them is still evident.

Remus fixes his hair, ever the tidy one. His fingers are gentle. Sirius smiles, even though he wants to hate him, even though it hurts. "There, now you're all stylish." He's close enough to kiss, and Sirius thinks that he might be about to. Then he steps back. "Are you ready?"

Sirius lets out a breath he hadn't meant to hold. "No. Let's go."

When they Apparate onto the field, Sirius stumbles a little on his leg, and Remus catches him. "All right?"

"The grass was slippery," he mutters. It's not even a lie. The rain is coming down here, too, harder than in Yorkshire. He thinks he limps a bit on his way over to Peter and the Potters, but nobody seems to notice.

Sirius remembers talking with Gideon just a week ago, a quick exchange of information before parting ways. He doesn't know what he said, but he knows that within twenty-four hours Gideon was dead. His brother Fabian, too, but Sirius is sure he never spoke to him.

The way they died, ambushed on a mission that should have been top secret—there must be a spy, Moody said, and Sirius went home and tried to read Remus's expression. For once in his life, he couldn't. And he wonders—did he let something slip?

The officiator finishes the service, his tufty hair sticking up even in the rain, and takes several steps back. Molly replaces him and lays flowers on both caskets. She's crying, Sirius notices. Almost everyone is. Molly's mother, her husband, Dumbledore standing silently off to one side, Lily, Peter. Not Remus. Not Sirius.

When the caskets catch fire, he can't watch. He turns to Remus instead, since he's apparently unable to do anything other than watch his lover-betrayer. Remus is staring at the flames. Did he do it? Sirius can't bear the question. He turns to James and finds him holding Lily, patting her back.

"Are you lot going to The Singing Jarvey with the rest?" James asks as they pull apart.

Peter looks like a drowned rat in the rain, red eyes and all. "I don't feel up to it," he mumbles.

Sirius shrugs. "Maybe." The Singing Jarvey is Diggle's favorite, he knows, and almost always packed. He might not be able to get out of it, though, if Remus wants to. He raises his eyebrows at Remus, a silent question.

"Are you two going?" Remus asks as the crowd begins to disperse.

Lily shakes her head. "I'm not. I need to sleep."

James smiles, and Sirius knows he's doing his best to make her smile, as well. "It's lucky she'll only be an insomniac for three more months," he tells the rest of them. "She's a nightmare when she's tired."

It works. Lily hits him gently, her other hand on her belly. "He's not going, either. I'm going to kill him." Then she blushes. "Sorry. It's a bit too soon, I know."

The fleeting cheer vanishes, and Sirius thinks the rain might just wash him away. He finds his eyes drawn to the pyre, feels like throwing himself on top of it might be a good idea.

"Do you want to go?" Remus asks.

Sirius blinks at the intrusion. He's too wet to burn, he reminds himself, and anyways, someone has to hang around to keep Remus from going on a killing spree once a month. "Do you?"

Remus makes a face, the same one he always does when he makes a decision. At last he says, "I don't want to go home."

They compromise. The Hog's Head, Sirius knows, will allow Remus to exist without being assaulted, and will allow _him_ to drink as much as he wants without asking questions. When his firewhiskey arrives he drinks it more quickly than he should. His eyes water, but it's not enough. The Bin Juice in the kitchen cabinet is much stronger, and he's developed at taste for that rubbish.

"Take it easy," Remus cautions. "It's hard to Apparate when one of us is drunk."

Sirius signals for another bottle. "I don't care. I don't want to take it easy." He presses his thumbs against his closed eyelids, blotting out the colors. "I don't want to _think."_

"Well, one of us has to." Yes, but why does it have to be him? He's thinking enough for both of them lately, and it hurts his head. "Life can't be all funerals and baby showers. There's work to do."

"I know. We never get a break." Sirius takes his second bottle and downs half of it. The burn reminds him of the funeral pyre. This week it was the Prewetts, last week the McKinnons. It would be easier to bear if he knew who he was sitting next to. He raises his bottle to his lips, but finds it already empty. Remus, on the other hand, has hardly touched his. "Are you going to drink that?"

Remus blinks as if startled. "Yes, don't touch it." He pauses as he takes a sip. "If you want a break, you could always run off to a pet shop and get yourself a nice grooming. Padfoot's fur is bound to be getting a little shaggy by now."

"You think I should get a haircut?" Sirius asks, touching his hair to check its growth. It doesn't seem too long.

"Not necessarily. It might be relaxing, that's all."

Sirius laughs. The only thing that can relax him is a good fight. "Right, and next Christmas you'll buy me calming teas and bath scents."

"How'd you guess?"

They lapse into silence, Sirius with an empty bottle. He wonders how long they'll be staying. The whiskey is good, but his leg still aches. He sighs. Remus deserves time away from the cottage, spy or not. Ever since Glasgow he's been shut up in there. Sirius can't imagine being stuck like that, and feels a twinge of sympathy. The names, the glares, the mistrust everywhere—thank God it's not him. Looking over, he sees that Remus's knuckles are white around his bottle.

"Don't break the glass," he says. He tries for a light tone, but it doesn't quite work out. Now Remus is picking at the wood, his expression wobbly. "Something bothering you?"

Remus laughs.

Sirius can't help feeling hurt, although he's not exactly the most genuine person in the world right now. Still—he can't say why he asked, but he meant the question, and somewhere deep down he thinks he still loves Remus. No, he's sure of it. If he didn't, this wouldn't be so painful.

Remus stops laughing. "Sorry. I'm trying not to let it get to me."

Those are his words. He wonders if they're as much of a cop-out for Remus as they were for him. "I understand."

He wishes he understood better. It's still a massive punch in the gut each time he thinks about how much has changed. Remus, who does anything for his friends, has somehow betrayed them all. It must be so much worse than they imagined, doing nothing all the time, to drive him to this. Or maybe he's just afraid. Sirius thinks he could understand that, he's bloody terrified every time he opens a window, and if they're on the losing side, it makes sense to find better friends. Beside him, Remus bangs his empty glass down loudly. "Maybe you're the one who needs a good grooming," Sirius suggests. Words rest heavy on his tongue. "Is… is there anything you want to talk to me about?" He'll do anything to bring him back, make him Remus again. "I'm always here for you, you know."

Remus responds slowly. "I'm just… It's everything that's going on. The funerals—today, and last week, and before that. It's going to be one of us sooner or later, I'm sure of it."

Sirius wonders if that's all. But now isn't the time to ask the real questions—he'd rather save that fight for home. Rather avoid it forever. "Don't talk like that, Moony. We're going to be all right. We're going to win the war."

"That doesn't really help. You can't be sure."

"Well, what would help?" Sirius hesitates, then lurches forward and covers Remus's hand with his own. Hopefully it doesn't look as awkward as it feels. He's a bit out of practice.

"Hey," says a man sitting on the other side of Remus. His gray robes are tight around his fleshy neck, and his splotchy face is twisted into a sneer. Dread knots in Sirius's stomach.

Remus turns to face him. "Sorry?"

"You look a bit familiar," the man says with narrowed eyes. "You're that werewolf, aren't you?"

The pub goes quiet. Sirius sees several people put down their glasses, and a few whose hands stray toward their wands. "I don't know what you're talking about," Remus says into the silence.

"Don't lie. I know what you are." The man looks over the crowd, letting them hear him clearly. "This one wounded three muggles in Glasgow. Evaded capture by the Ministry, too." Sirius notices his hand, balled in his pocket. "Well, not today."

Despite everything that's going on, something pulls tight in Sirius's chest, and he can feel Remus's pounding heartbeat through their hands as they crush each other. His wand is out—the other man lunges forward, the beginnings of a spell on the air—

And then Aberforth is there with his hand clamped on the man's shoulder. "That's enough. I run a pub, not a dueling hall. Take it somewhere else."

"Didn't you hear? He's a half-breed. A criminal." Sirius glares right back. Aberforth is watching him, though, so he does nothing, infuriating as it is.

"Maybe so, but you're bad for business." Aberforth's fingers clench visibly. "Get out."

The man jerks his shoulder free. "Better not show your face again," he snarls. "Next time you might not—"

"Out."

"I get it." He spits on Remus's face.

Sirius watches him leave, a hot feeling behind his sternum, then turns away along with the rest of the crowd. As Aberforth and Remus talk, he loses himself in his third drink. This is too much, he thinks. He remembers Remus asking, a year ago now, "How would you know what I've faced?" He wants to cry, to hold him. _I'll face it with you, I'll do anything, just don't do this to your friends. To me._

"I'm tired," Remus says.

"You want to go home?" Sirius asks, doing his best to keep the hope out of his voice.

"Yeah. Sorry."

"It's fine." Another five minutes in here and he'll scream. He downs the last of his firewhiskey, though, because he's supposed to be fine. Outside, the rain weighs down his cloak within seconds. "It's a shame all that happened," he remarks. "I know how much you like getting out of the house." He glances around, checking that no one is waiting to jump on them from an alley.

Remus sees. "Don't hex anyone."

"I won't. If I ever see that idiot again, I'll curse him." Remus blanches. "Joking," Sirius chuckles, but he isn't. "Although you don't need to worry about that 'next time' he was threatening you with." He wonders how it's possible to love someone without trusting them.

"Don't I? If it's not him, it'll be someone else."

Maybe it's not possible at all. Maybe the human body isn't meant to sustain this sort of thing. He feels as if he's being ripped in two. "Whoever it is—whenever—I'll be there." He takes Remus's rain-dampened hand. "Loyal guard dog, at your service."

Remus laughs. Sirius pushes away the sinking feeling and reminds himself that the fingers between his belong to _Remus,_ so close and warm beside him. But he can't forget that he's also holding hands with a traitor. And his laughter is the saddest sound Sirius has ever heard.


End file.
